


grab that golden ring

by jk_rockin



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Guns, Implied Relationships, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kurt's boyfriend Blaine is Blaine Anderson?"</p>
<p>"What, is he famous or something?" Santana looked at him over her shades. "Oh my god, does he do porn?"</p>
<p>"What? No. I think my dad, uh-" launders his dad's dirty money while doing his taxes- "knows his dad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	grab that golden ring

**Author's Note:**

> This is old as balls, pretty seriously AU (and maybe OOC, I don’t know) and will never ever get properly finished, because I stopped watching Glee three seasons ago and cannot bring myself to care enough to try to work new canon into it, even though Dave is apparently back on the show and dating Blaine. Still, it turned up while sorting through things, and if I'm lucky someone with a fresher grip on the canon might steal this idea and turn it into actual fic. With threesomes, because... threesomes. (if you have not worked out that complicated power dynamics, size difference and poly ships are my jam, you have not been reading my fic.) I'm sorry to tell you that this does not have threesomes- nobody so much as kisses, and even the violence is pretty lightweight.
> 
> Content warnings (spoilers): a violent abduction takes place in this fic. Guns are waved around, but no graphic violence occurs and nobody gets shot on-camera, and there are no character deaths. Unsafe non-sexy bondage happens. One or two homophobic slurs. If you spot anything else triggery that deserves a warning, please let me know.
> 
> Title from _Americano_ , the English version of _Tu Vuo' Fa' L'Americano_. Not sorry.

The back of Blaine's towncar smells like- well, it smells like really thoroughly clean car, mostly, and like Blaine's cologne. Kurt would know what it is. To Dave, it just smells like Blaine. Dave's more an aftershave guy, anyway.

His hands are shaking.

With Blaine on his right, and Kurt on his left, one of them's going to notice; one of them will have noticed, so what the hell, right? He presses them to his knees, but they twitch anyway. Kurt reaches out and takes one, and Blaine takes the other, moving in tandem.

It's- normally this job, inasmuch as it's work, it's very low key. Looking menacing behind Kurt, carrying his shit when he goes shopping (not in the brochure, exactly, but not unexpected) and following him and Blaine around on weekends and after school if they don't have homework, or sometimes to the library when they do. That's all. He's barely had to raise a hand to anyone all year.

Kurt sprawls over Dave's shoulder, slides a leg over his knee, and presses his face to Dave's collarbone. His hair smells fruity; his hands are a little cold. Dave tenses, looking to Blaine.

This sort of shit is not actually supposed to happen. It was supposed to be high school assholes, it was supposed to be paying his dues. It was most pointedly not supposed to be grown-ass men with baseball bats. Maybe that didn't come up- maybe he had not in fact specified that guys with baseball bats in panel vans were not okay when he and Hobbit Legs sat down and talked this out, but Jesus fucking Christ, he had not expected it to be a factor, okay? He hadn't.

Knowing, knowing who Blaine was, who his father was, maybe he should have.

He's pretty calm. Like, relatively. His hands are shaking, but his eyes are open, which counts for something. Those guys, Blaine's father's guys told him, those guys were actually pretty smalltime- never planning on doing anything with those bats, or with the guns they flashed at him. He was safe as long as he didn't do anything stupid, and he didn't do anything stupid, so. Fine. His body doesn't know that he wasn't going to get shot in the head, so his hands, if they're shaking, that's fine.

*

When Dave first met Blaine, he had no idea who he was. Blaine might like to think he might have shown a little more respect if he had, but considering how fucked up Dave was last year, maybe not. At the time he was just some slick little creep mouthing off about Dave's private shit in the stairwell at school, so Dave's attitude was understandable. He didn't find out who he was, didn't hear his name, until halfway through the summer, hanging out with Santana.

("This summer sucks so bad, I'm contemplating arson," she'd complained. "I'm reduced to lying around, wasting a perfectly good bikini on your unappreciative queer ass."

"Your tan's even now," he'd said, diplomatically.

"So's yours, Farmer Ted," she replied, "for all the good it does us. I'm still the lone Lima lesbo, and the only other gays we know are Kurt and that Anderson douchebag."

Dave sat up. "What?"

"Oh whatever, like you don't hate him too," she grumbled. "If I had to like everyone my friends dated, I would probably kill myself."

"No, no, his name. Anderson? Kurt's boyfriend Blaine is Blaine Anderson?"

"What, is he famous or something?" Santana looked at him over her shades. "Oh my god, does he do porn?"

"What? No. I think my dad, uh-" launders his dad's dirty money while doing his taxes- "knows his dad.")

Once he knew, some things made more sense. The couple of times they'd met, Dave had wondered why Blaine wasn't at least a little scared. Dave's a big guy with a rep for violence, and Blaine didn't so much as flinch when Dave shoved him. Blaine carries himself like he's not scared of anybody, just like his dad does. It was probably only Dave's name- Dave's dad- that saved Dave from the beating of a lifetime.

Nowadays, Dave knows Blaine a little better. He knows how stupid and reckless he can be, how he doesn't always think shit through like he should. Dave knows Blaine's lieutenants back at Dalton (Wes and David) think he's too flashy, too new-school, to really make a name for himself. Personally, Dave thinks Wes and David are assholes, and not just because they look at Dave like he's dirt, either. They're prissy old-money fucks with no vision, based on what Blaine's said, and they talk to Blaine like a spoiled toddler they have to babysit.

Blaine is a mouthy little shit, sure. He's reckless and arrogant, and just a teenager, but Blaine's not dumb. He's not as tradition-bound as guys like Dave's dad, who thinks he never made it to the big table because he's not Italian, when in fact it's because he's not good enough. Paul Karofsky is a good dad, and a decent accountant, but he lacks the imagination to put his lack of scruples to good use.

*

Blaine knows Paul Karofsky. He's a nice enough guy; a little too keen to play the big man, but harmless. He's the go-to in Western Ohio for shady accounting, because he's smart, but not too smart, and just greedy enough to make his remarkable talent for cooking books an investment, rather than a threat. When Kurt told him Dave's name, Blaine had automatically assumed that Dave, too, was small-minded and obsessed with his reputation, and at the time hadn't seen much to contradict his assumptions. But now he knows Dave- the son is so much more than the father. Dave is smart. He's good with numbers, yes, but more than that, he understands hierarchy, understands order. There are people like Karofsky Senior, destined to spend their lives working for people like Blaine's father; people like Wes and David, unwilling to see past the old ways, who are destined to be replaced by people like Dave Karofsky. Dave is adaptable, understands strategy. He's loyal, but to people, not blood. Blaine doesn't care where he came from- just where he's going.

Dave is big and mean-looking, smart and loyal. He understands strategy, has a head for numbers, understands the need for structure. He understands the chain of command. And, okay, he has a crush on Blaine’s boyfriend that’s visible from space and a convenient case of guilt. A need to make good past mistakes. That’s useful.

Big, strong, guilt-ridden bodyguard is one thing; but Dave shows up to coffee and and keeps Blaine posted like he said he would. He makes bitchy comments like he thinks nobody’s listening and he listens to Kurt and he raises eyebrows at Blaine’s outfits but says nothing, like on top of being good at math he’s good at this, without being taught.

When Blaine finds himself confiding- Jesus, confiding, like a little kid- his concerns about David and Wes back at Dalton, he knows he’s fucked. Dave doesn’t look blank or bothered, just nods. Just says guys like David and Wes, traditional born-to-rules who grow up being prepped for their business degrees and high-salary jobs, they’re not like Blaine. They see this stuff, as, essentially, resume packing. Another extracurricular, complete with politics and a uniform. Blaine, by leaving Dalton and doing theatre and getting involved with Kurt (and, by extension, Dave) is not towing the line. They think he’s not up to it because he’s doing his thing his way, and fuck that.

“Did you just give me a pep talk?”

“Fuck you, that was inspiring.”

(Blaine kind of likes how casually Dave tells him to go fuck himself. Manners are one thing- and Karofsky has those, when he needs them- but he never hesitates to roll his eyes or tell Blaine he’s being a douche. It’s... refreshing.)

*

"Swing by the Hummels' around eleven tomorrow," says Blaine, stirring his coffee.

Dave rolls his eyes. "Sir, yes sir," he grumbles. "Where am I taking him?"

"Kurt and I are taking you on a couple of errands." Blaine smiles. He sets his spoon down and takes a sip. "Wear clean underwear."

Scowling, Dave cocks his head.

"Relax," Blaine laughs. "We're taking you to see my good friend Felix the tailor, over in Lima Central. There're a couple of things coming up, you're going to need a suit or two."

"The hell," Dave exclaims. "Listen, Anderson. I agreed to keep an eye on your boy. I show up for these State of the Union talks, and drink shitty overpriced coffee, and let you buy me cookies like you give a shit about me. Nobody said anything about formal wear."

Blaine sighs. "First of all, they're crostoli." Ignoring Dave's eye-roll, he presses on. "And second, you and I have these little sit-downs because it's important that we keep one another informed. Kurt's safety is important to me, David, and I know it's important to you too."

Dave flushes, looking away. Blaine smiles at him. "Third," he says, putting a hand over Dave's on the table, "I do give a shit about you."

Dave looks at Blaine's hand on his; at his warm, strong fingers on Dave's wrist. He knows what Blaine means, or thinks he does. Dave is useful to Blaine. Dave keeps Kurt safe when Blaine's not around. Guys like Blaine give a fuck about Dave at all because he is useful, that's all-

"Not just because you're helping me out with Kurt," Blaine says, _what the fuck_. "Alright, it's mostly that. But you're not stupid, David. You understand why I worry. You're actually good at this."

Blaine's hand hasn't moved off his. Dave can't stop looking at it.

"My dad is having a couple of get-togethers later in the month. I want you to accompany Kurt and I. As a friend of mine."

Finally, Dave looks up from the table. Blaine is leaning forward, watching Dave's face. He's smiling, but not his regular, cheesy smile. This one is smaller, a little crooked, a little hopeful. Jesus, it's fucked up, but Dave sort of wants to say yes. Even knowing what it means, what taking that suit will mean, what saying yes to being Blaine's crew means, he sort of wants to say yes.

He blinks a few times, and slides his hand out from under Blaine's, taking a sip of his coffee. "Eleven, you said," he mutters.

Blaine beams, happy and satisfied. "Eleven."

*

Before he got tangled up with this crazy Stepford Schoolboy motherfucker, spending an hour in his underwear with Kurt Hummel staring at him might have sounded like a good time. As it is, Kurt and Blaine sit around commenting on fabrics while Felix the tailor pokes and prods Dave around, measuring and holding up samples and generally treating Dave like a mannequin.

“I do own a suit,” Dave grumbles.

“The Men's Wearhouse monkey suit you wore to Prom?” Kurt says, studying his fingernails. “We’re not going to a funeral, David.”

Felix looks at Dave sharply over the top of his glasses. “Off the rack? For shame.” Dave blushes. “You got the shoulders for a proper suit, boy, don’t waste ‘em. A little tailoring’ll do you good.”

“I keep telling him,” says Blaine. “All his clothes are too big.”

“My clothes fit fine!”

“Your shirts are like sacks with polo necks,” says Kurt.

“Listen, kid,” says Felix, hanging his measuring tape around his neck. “These two may be a couple of-” Blaine coughs delicately; Felix averts his eyes- “-fashion plates, but you let them dress you from now on. They’ve got the right idea. You want people taking you seriously, you need to look correct.”

Dave glances at Kurt, who gives him a considering look- like he’s planning outfits already- and then at Blaine, who gives him a little grin.

Dave sighs. “As long as I get some say in it."

“As long as that say doesn’t involve any more striped polo shirts, that’s A-OK,” says Kurt.

*

They end up ordering Dave two suits- one dark charcoal, and a black tux. While he puts his own clothes back on, Kurt and Blaine talk to Felix about shirts and ties. Dave tries to tune them out, though it’s tricky when Kurt gets excited about waistcoats.

Felix gives him a last look over as they leave, shaking his head. “You two sort this kid out. He’s backing an Anderson, he needs to show a little more pride.”

They spend the afternoon dragging Dave around the mall, making him try on endless stacks of clothes. A lot of it Dave vetoes on sight- he refuses all cardigans and blazers, anything brightly coloured, and approximately half the sweaters Kurt picks out. Still, they burn through most of the money Dave’s dad gave him (Dave might be awkward about Blaine buying him shit, but he wasn’t gonna tell his dad no if he started handing out cash) buying jeans, shirts, and the couple of sweaters Dave actually likes. No polo necks, no baggy jeans, nothing comfortable- Kurt gets squinty every time Dave reaches for the larger sizes, so he ends up with all this stuff that’s too tight (“It’s not too tight, you lummox, it fits you. Now how do you feel about vests?” “No.”) and looks like he actually gives a crap. It goes against his whole image, but maybe that’s the idea.

On Monday, he rolls into school in new jeans, a plaid short-sleeve buttonup and a black tee. He gets a couple of looks from girls, which is cool- gay, yeah, but a compliment’s a compliment, right?- and when Kurt arrives to find him leaning against his locker, it earns him a wolf whistle and a little smile.

(Blaine’s initial promises- nothing serious, nothing will change, not a big deal- are all pretty much shit now. Dave’s got most of glee being civil to him, if not friendly; Kurt treats him like a friend, and he and Blaine both text him constantly- funny little asides (Kurt), reminders (Blaine), obnoxious song lyrics (both). Kurt seems determined to overhaul his wardrobe, too. When Dave wears something objectionable he scowls and glares; when he wears something Kurt likes, he’s friendly and smiling. Dave sucks at not caring about Kurt’s opinion.)

*

So, you know. Shopping trips. Coffee. Maybe a little advice on the side, maybe looking over the Google spreadsheets Blaine calls his accounts, maybe reminding Kurt not to wear orange to dinner with the Irish Catholic families- but nothing serious. Not yet. Not while he's still worrying about his GPA and college applications.

Then again, it's a fucking shopping trip that does it. He and Kurt are walking from Kurt's car to the mall entrance when the van pulls up and dudes in ski masks pour out of it. It takes Dave a shameful second to process- actual fucking ski masks, an unmarked panel van, it's like a cartoon- but he pulls it together fast enough to put himself between them and Kurt, to yell at him to run. Kurt books it, darting between cars to get back to his own, but one of the ski mask dudes has Dave by an arm. He's not so big, and he doesn't have time to get his other arm up before Dave gets his elbow into his face, knocking him down. It's not til he hears the clatter of wood on concrete that Dave notices the bats- baseball bats, what the fuck, who does this shit- and that's probably when he starts freaking out. Another guy, a little bigger, comes at him with a bat raised; Dave ducks low and shoves him, toppling him over too, and this would be fine, if it was just these two dudes, but there are five more circling him. This is not fine.

Behind him, he hears the squeal of tires. He turns to check it's Kurt getting away, finds another guy behind him and he's holding a gun, a real gun, that is a live firearm, holy shit.

"Get in the van," the guy with the gun says. The guys next to him aren't armed, not visibly, but the ones Dave knocked over are on their feet again. His chances of getting past them are low, and the gun makes them lower, makes it more likely he'd get himself killed. Shit. He's watching Kurt's Escalade pull out of the parking lot when one of the guys behind him jabs the back of the knee with a bat, and he crashes to the floor. He scrabbles to push himself to his feet, but they're on him, hauling him up by the armpits and into the van.

The door slides shut, and they start to move. One of the guys pulls a black bag over his head; another zip-ties his hands together, and several hands throw him onto the van's floor. Someone plants a foot on his chest, and keeps him down as they drive away.

They drive for a while, turning often. Whoever these guys are, they've watched a lot of movies, but they're not all that bright; the bag over his head is just thin cotton, and while it impedes his vision he can still see. He tries to get a look at some faces, but only the driver has his mask off, and they all look pretty much the same with them on; white dudes, average heights, not super old. All adults. This isn't kid stuff, that's certain. This is a problem.

When they pull up and shove him out of the van, they’re in an industrial district- Dave barely gets a glance at some grey warehouses before he’s dragged into one, down some badly lit corridors, and shoved into a room and onto a chair. He tries to take a look around while they tie his legs to it, but there's not a lot to see; walls, floor, a single hanging lightbulb. They really have watched too many movies.

"Here's the deal, punk." A guy, unmasked and unfamiliar, appears in the doorway. The masked men from the van straighten up as he walks in, and he waves them out into the hallway, leaning in to address Dave directly. "You are gonna keep your ass in that chair. You are not going to move, or talk, or try anything stupid. Nod if you understand me."

Dave nods.

"Good. You sit tight," the guy says, and shuts the door, leaving Dave alone in the dim light of the single bulb. Immediately voices start up from outside; he can't make out words, but it sounds like an argument. Dave wiggles a little, testing his bindings. Zip ties, fuck, probably the only thing they've done properly, and his hands are between his back and the chair. They have, at least, not tied his arms to the chair. He could stand up and take the chair with him, but that's noisy.

Speaking of noisy, he's really got to work on his breathing- he's making these little panting noises, like an upset puppy. His heart's still beating way too fast. Does it count as a panic attack if you have extremely legitimate reasons to panic, he wonders, flexing his wrists against the plastic ties, or is it just regular old panic?

*

When Kurt rings his phone, Blaine hesitates before picking it up- family brunch is a sacred thing in the Anderson household- but his dad nods, so he answers. "Hey, baby, I'm actually-"

"They've taken Dave," Kurt says, voice tight and tinny on the line.

"I- what?"

"Half a dozen guys in an unmarked van. Bats and ski masks." He can hears car noises under Kurt's voice; he's got him on Bluetooth while he drives. "I ran, but they got Dave. I'm following them now, on the 81, heading east."

"Did they say what they want?" Blaine's dad is watching him, now, over the top of his newspaper. "Who they were?"

"I didn't stop for introductions, Blaine! Are you going to help or not?"

Blaine looks at his dad, and puts Kurt on speakerphone.

*

They’ve left him alone, other than looking in on him once or twice. Dave's not sure how long he's been there- an hour, maybe two- but another couple of arguments have broken out, flurries of raised voices from, as far as he can tell, the room next door. They're nervous. Tactically, that's useful, but from the perspective of the guy tied to a chair, nervous people and guns are a bad mix.

He's been passing the time stretching, flexing against the ties. They've used the big ones, so they don't pinch too badly. He's in the process of testing the limits of the tie on his left ankle when the door opens, and there's the guy again, still no mask, gun in hand. "So who the fuck are you," he asks, fingers clenching on the handgun's grip. "Hmm? The fuck are you?" Dave doesn't answer. "I send my boys out," the guy says, pacing around Dave's chair, "with a real simple directive. I say to them, you go get me Blaine Anderson's boyfriend, and bring him to me. They bring me you. I assumed the fairy's tastes had changed- but now I find out you are not the fairy's boyfriend. Are you?"

Dave shakes his head.

"No, I didn't think so. So now I have some kid, who is not the kid I asked for. So let me ask you again. Who the fuck are you?"

If Dave were this guy- he likes to think he wouldn't be, that he'd have taken the time to plan an operation of this type sufficiently to _get the right person_ \- he would be thinking about ways to ditch the unprofitable asset, i.e., Dave. He is no use to this dude. It’d be tricky to just kill him; he’s young and likely to be reported missing. There are probably ways to do it that don’t totally suck, strategically, but you’d need a sharper crew than this. Should Dave have pretended he was Blaine’s boyfriend? Might have been worth a shot, might have caught him a beating. Shit. Fuck. He needs more data. Who the fuck is this guy, for instance?

“I said, who are you?” Oh, there's the gun again, there's a gun to his head, Jesus Christ. He shies away from the barrel, not bothering to conceal how much he can see, because that is a gun in his face-

“Dave Karofsky,” he blurts, "I'm muscle, I'm just muscle.”

“Just muscle?” The muzzle of the gun presses harder against Dave’s temple, cold through the bag. "I've heard that name before. Karofsky. That's not a muscle name, Dave."

"I swear to god, I'm just-” He’s interrupted by yelling from outside, doors banging open, the crack of suppressed gunfire. Dave flinches, scooting the chair sideways, grateful that for all his other faults this guy does have good enough trigger discipline to not shoot him accidentally; the guy jerks back, gun up. The door opens, and there's Blaine fucking Anderson, holding a gun of his own, levelled at the the chest of Dave's captor.

"There you are," he says to Dave.

"You little punk," says the guy, advancing towards Blaine, brandishing his weapon wildly. "You worthless little fag, you think you can just walk in here-"

"I really can," says Blaine, and clocks him in the side of the head with the butt of his gun. The guy crumples to the floor; Blaine leans over him and takes his gun, tucking it into his jacket pocket, before making his way over to Dave. “You hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Dave says, amazed by how steady his voice sounds. “Cut me loose?”

“Oh, of course,” Blaine says. From the other pocket of his jacket, he produces a sleek flick knife, and kneels to cut the zip ties binding Dave to the chair. Once his hands are free Dave pulls the bag off his head and shakes himself, stretches his arms a little.

"You've got an actual exit plan, right," says Dave, looking from Blaine to the limp body of his captor and back.

“What, you think I’m as dumb as this guy?” Blaine nudges the guy in the leg with the toe of his polished Oxfords. “Come on, the car’s waiting. Benny!” A heavyset man with a goatee- Dave recognises him, he’s one of Blaine’s dad’s guys- leans in the door. “Put him in the van. This is the one in charge of this shitshow.”

“Yes, sir,” says Benny.

“And call my dad, let him know we’re taking the car,” Blaine says, ushering Dave out into the corridor with a hand on his back. Dave tries to catch a look at the place, but it’s pretty nondescript, even with full use of his sight. There’s a long smear of blood on the concrete near the door; he tries, and fails, not to imagine where that came from.

“I’ll let him know. Hey, Jack, help me with him.” A bald man, another of Mr Anderson’s, bustles past them, tipping a nod to Blaine as he passes. They come out into the laneway between warehouses. There’s the van Dave came in, side panel open, with a pile of bodies- no. They’re all breathing, relax, exhale. The guys who attacked him are tied up in the back of the van, and there's a black towncar parked next to it.

The car door opens, and Kurt leans out, pale and tense. “Get your ass in this car, David Karofsky,” he says, and Dave goes.

*

It's a little too warm in the back of the car, actually. Dave’s still wearing the hoodie he’s been sweating in since this morning, and he’s got Kurt and Blaine curled up on either side of him, getting warmer all the time. He’s trying to feel weird about it. Honestly, they touch him all the time- Blaine is grabby as hell, all claps on the shoulder and touches on the arm, and even Kurt, as they've gotten to know one another as actual people, makes pretty free with Dave's personal space sometimes. It's never gotten to full-on cuddling before, though.

He doesn't really mind.

"Kurt’s house is empty," says Blaine, who's texting with his free hand. “If we go back to mine, we'll have to talk to my dad."

"Same at mine," Dave says. "I don't- can we not tell my dad about today? Ever, if possible?"

"Of course," says Kurt. "You think my dad would let me anywhere near Blaine if he knew about any of this?" He rubs a hand up Dave's arm, soothing.

"I'm not freaking out," Dave says. It's even mostly true. He did his freaking out in that cramped concrete room. He’s shaking a little, yeah, feeling a little dizzy, and maybe holding the hands in his a little too tight, but he’s not freaking out. That’s okay. “You don’t have to, y’know. I’m alright.”

“You got kidnapped by masked men who were after me. This is for my benefit, not yours,” says Kurt haughtily, squeezing tighter against his side.

Dave looks at Blaine, who rolls his eyes, not unkindly. “We’ll go to Kurt’s. Hog the couch and watch something brainless. Unless you’d rather be alone?”

“No,” Dave says, too fast. “No. Let’s do that. Like, cartoons?”

“Disney,” says Kurt. He puts his hand on top of Blaine and Dave’s joined hands, squeezing their fingers together.

**Author's Note:**

> HOW I GOT THIS DUMB IDEA IN THE FIRST PLACE:
> 
> You know you're a Karofsky stan when you're reading [an awesome mobster!Blaine AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/178848) and you're like
> 
> ooh this is good Blaine would be the perfect young mafia up-and-comer, he's got the polish, the manners, got the hair, and Kurt would be an ACE mafia boyfriend! Arm candy, but sharp, and sufficiently together to selective hear and see only what he needs to.
> 
> But Kurt is also a skinny show choir kid who doesn't get into fights, doesn't know his way around a firearm, and Blaine can't be with him all the time. Blaine's influence only stretches so far, and he's got too many connections at Dalton to transfer just now- he could work the public school angle, sure, but he needs time to tie up some loose ends before he can hand over his responsibilities at school to Wes and David- so if someone wanted to get at Blaine through Kurt, Kurt's vulnerable. His Glee friends wouldn't be much help; they didn't achieve much when they went after a high school bully, how much could they do against someone who meant business? The way Kurt tells it the only one who came out of that fight with pride intact was Karofsky, so-
> 
> Huh.
> 
> Maybe Dave Karofsky isn't precisely unconnected- if mobster!Blaine didn't have him _ahem_ dealt with when he first found out he was hurting Kurt, he probably had his reasons. Paul Karofsky isn't as influential as Blaine's father, but he knows guys who know guys; Mr. Anderson wouldn't have taken kindly to Blaine making waves over "kid stuff". Karofsky is big, right? Knows how to handle himself. Kurt's getting a little starry-eyed about him being a good guy underneath, since he apologised for his transgressions, so he won't mind him hanging around. Nothing official, of course, just looking out for a friend.
> 
> bloo bloo bloo I want mafia!Blaine coercing smalltimemafia!Dave to extend his Bully Whip duties to the rest of Kurt's time. I want awesome sexual tension as Dave and Kurt become better friends, and Blaine warming to Dave over their sit-downs where they keep tabs on Kurt, coordinate activities and, as time goes on, chat about football and Family politics. I want trophyboyfriend!Kurt inviting Dave along to things and Blaine not minding at all, and Dave being an awesome bodyguard while nursing feelings for Kurt and failing to maintain his resentment for Blaine, and Kurt casually pointing out how smart and loyal Dave is, gee won't he make someone a helpful and versatile numbers man/muscle/advisor someday? while casually sipping his espresso and passing Blaine the biscotti.
> 
> basically: can someone write me Klainofsky mafia!AU threesomes right the hell now please.


End file.
